Snow

When he arrived home his house looked cramped and small and the smell of smoke and dung bothered him. His family seemed coarse and gray, nothing but shadows. The woods held no interest for him but he walked through them, hoping. He hunted, because he knew it was what had drawn them to him, and waited. When another summons came, he went. He went and drowned in skin and touch. Back home again and he attended mass, listened to sermons about evil, about hell and what would take him there. Everything he'd done was listed. He listened and didn't care. No one knew what he did. He thought of the Prince, hands fisted in his hair and golden body wrapped around his, cock in his mouth and legs squeezing him tight. He thought about the Princess, hair flowing down around her back and spilling over his hands as their bodies worked together. He thought of his mouth between her legs, of seeing the bright flushed core of her arching towards him. He knew all of these things and no one else sitting in church with him did or ever would. He felt mighty. He felt like a King. He liked the feeling.

***

He knew she faded. David could see it, had watched his nurse grow smaller and thinner for years, shrinking from pain and age. He sat next to her when she lay huddled in bed, covers piled up around her and her eyes clouded with agony. She spoke of faraway times, of places and people he didn't know but that she recalled. Sometimes she called him by a name that wasn't his, asked about a cat they didn't have or lowered her voice to gossip about the Queen, about how eleven months had passed and still her babe rested inside her. He knew which Queen she spoke of and thought of questions. He never asked them.

She opened her eyes one afternoon and he knew she saw him because she told him to change his shirt and asked him when he'd last eaten, clucking her tongue when he said he wasn't sure. "You have to remember to do those things," she said. "You're all grown up now."

"I don't--I don't know what that means," he said, and watched as she looked at him, a patient loving smile on her face. "I mean, I do, but I don't--I don't know what to feel. How to--"

"Oh love," she said. "You'll know one day, I'm sure of it."

Each day she slept more and more, fitful slumbers where her body would shake for hours, her eyes flying open glazed over with pain and always staring at something he couldn't see. When she was awake a scullery maid would sometimes come to visit, sit shyly eating gingerbread and talking about a town David didn't know but his nurse did. The maid didn't seem to like him--she always turned red when he looked at her and her voice rose and shook whenever he tried to speak to her-- but the third time his nurse shook from early morning into afternoon he found her and said he was sorry to bother her, that he needed her help. She flushed so red he'd stared at her, entranced by the color in her face.

She tried to say something but her voice came out as a startled squeak. "I'm very sorry," he told her again and took a step back, hoping that would make her smile, ensure that she'd help him.

"But I need onions."

"Onions," the maid said, and her voice was still a little startled but different somehow. He liked the sound of it. "Is that all?" She moved closer and he stared at her shaking raw red hands. She smelled like potatoes. He loved potatoes, loved wrapping them up and baking them in coals, the hot earth smell of them filling the room. He smiled and moved a little closer, trying to think of something to say to her. He thought it would be nice to talk to someone.

"A lot of onions," he said, and dared to touch her hand. "As many as you can get. My nurse--

they'll make her better." The scullery maid stared at him.

"Oh," she said, and another expression crossed her face. This one David knew. He saw it on most people's faces when they looked at him. He wasn't surprised when she drew her hand away, stared down at it with wide eyes. He knew she wouldn't bring him any onions.

After that, he started sleeping on the floor by his nurse's bed. He stopped when ice began to coat the floor, growing in time with her pained cries. He piled more blankets on her and sat leaning into an old cane chair, afraid to close his eyes. He watched the blankets rise and fall and wished he knew what to do.

"He killed her," she said in the middle of the night, and her voice was loud and strong and young.

"That baby killed her. Did you see her face when she saw him? Did you hear what she said? I want to go home. It's not an honor to be here! And if it is, why don't you be his nurse? I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken like that to you, my lady. Please don't hit me again. It's just that I don't want to be his nurse. I told you so before he was even born, remember? So please, please--I know he's just a baby! But I don't--I don't want to die."